


that one where dean thinks sam's found out

by rei_c



Series: The Genderfluid(ity) 'Verse [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Based on a Tumblr Post, Consensual Underage Sex, Drinking, F/M, Female Sam Winchester, Flirting, Gender Issues, Gender Related, Gender or Sex Swap, Genderbending, Genderfluid, I Blame Tumblr, Inspired By Tumblr, Kissing, M/M, Magic, Pool & Billiards, Sam Can't Catch a Break, Sibling Incest, Spells & Enchantments, Walk Into A Bar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-30
Updated: 2016-01-30
Packaged: 2018-05-17 06:46:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5858503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/rei_c
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean knew he'd be meeting Sam at the bar after a long day of research and interviews -- but the Sam that's waiting for him isn't his brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	that one where dean thinks sam's found out

**Author's Note:**

  * For [formalizing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/formalizing/gifts).



> So...there will be (probably) five or six other short ficlets in this 'verse, but this is the first bit that I came up with. *Hands*

He's driven around this small town more times than he can count since Sam rock-paper-scissored him this morning into doing the groundwork while Sam's been ensconced in a library all day. Dean's made it to two witness homes, got groped by one "grieving" widow, reeks of liver juice from when the coroner got a little too excited at having the FBI in his little Oklahoma town, and he's been wearing a suit for the last _ten hours_. Ugh. 

The only redeeming factor about this is Sam; Sam texted not too long ago, said there was a shot of Jack and a beer chaser waiting for Dean, along with an empty pool table, at the local dive bar. If there's one thing that might redeem this shitshow of a day, it's a couple cold ones, a pool table, and Sam. 

Dean stops at the motel first -- has to change out of this foul-smelling suit before he actually retches instead of just dry-heaving -- and puts on jeans, holey socks, boots, one of his loose, worn-in Zeppelin tees, grabs the jacket that doesn't go at all with the fed suit he's worn all day. 

On his way out the door, he kicks the suit, the shirt, even those fucking shoes, into the corner. 

\--

As soon as he walks in, Dean's looking for Sam. He doesn't see Sam's mop of hair lurking in any of the corners or booths around the pool table. There's a stutter-skip to his heartbeat when he lays eyes on the chick playing pool, though: long legs, a pair of ragged and beat-up Doc Martens at one end, some fucking _short_ black ripped shorts on the other, framing an ass that's just begging for Dean's hands. Long hair, too, longer than he'd expect, but man, he's only had her in his sights for ten seconds and he's imagining running his hands through that hair while she blows him, wrapping the long strands around his hands as he fucks into her. 

Dean heads for the bar, keeps the corner of one eye pinned on her. He grins real pretty at the bartender, sees the way her pupils dilate, the faintest hint of colour rising on her cheeks, and says, "I've been told I have a shot of Jack and a beer waiting for me." 

"Oh, yeah," the bartender says, and she's all professional now, the interest and, frankly, invitation in her eyes entirely wiped out. "You're Dean?" She runs her gaze over him, lets out a whistle. "Can see why you don't need to buy your own drinks, handsome." 

He smirks, lifts a shoulder, and she scoffs, rolls her eyes as she goes to get the beer and pour out a shot. In the minute Dean's left alone, his eyes drift back to the woman playing pool, watches the way she lifts her left foot when she shoots, all but the toe, showing off a glorious arch to her back and her calf that Dean wants to kneel in front of and worship -- if he can tear himself away from the view that he has now, the curves of her ass cheeks peeking out from those shorts. 

The bartender comes back right after Dean adjusts himself in his jeans, gives him a smile like she knows what he's thinking about. "Here you go, sugar. Go say thank you, 'kay?"

"Oh, _definitely_ ," Dean says, practically purring. The bartender flushes again but flips him off as he leaves. Dean laughs, appreciates that kind of attitude, and stalks over to the pool table. 

It's like she can feel him approaching; she straightens up when he gets closer. She's a couple inches shorter than him, not by much, and the grip she has on the pool cue is loose and easy, like she's learnt to play before she rode a bike. It's the kind of tell a bad hustler has, that or a really fucking good one, trying to play the player, not the game. Dean can appreciate that difference for what it is, really, but he catches sight of the switchblade tucked in her boot, the uneven balance of the jacket she hasn't taken off even though the bar's pretty warm -- gun in one pocket, mace or pepper spray in the other, though he's not exactly sure which is on what side. The respect he has for her is about as high as the sex appeal she's oozing even before Dean sees her face. 

She turns around and Dean takes her in quick, head to toe, the thin Pink Floyd t-shirt, the leather jacket, pool chalk in her other hand, the clean lines of muscles in her legs. He lingers on those legs, imagines them wrapped around him, and he grins, cocky, when she clears her throat. Dean looks back at her face, then at her eyes, and -- he knows those eyes. He knows who this is, has been expecting her, but has to ask, " _Sam_?" 

Sam lets out a breath, sets the cue and chalk down on the table, jumps up to sit on the edge. She spreads her legs just enough for Dean to stand between them, and she wraps those legs around his, her Doc Martens rubbing against his calves. "I don't know why all the fucking gender-bending spells hit me when we both know they're aiming for you." 

Dean leers, says, "Ain't a bad thing from where I'm standing." 

"I can see that," Sam says, tone dry as she glances down at his crotch. " _Dean_." 

"Maybe they just know that you're prettier as a girl than I'd ever be," Dean says. Before Sam can say anything -- though not before she opens her mouth -- he's set his beer down, has one hand on her waist and one on the nape of her neck, under the hair where the skin's warm and just a little bit damp with sweat. Her mouth opens wide for him, lets him in like the sweetest little thing he's ever kissed before, and he swallows the moan she just barely gives up control enough to let free. 

She's the one that pulls back but her hands are fisted in Dean's shirt, keeping him close. "Dean," she says, and Dean's eyes flick to her lips for just a second, enough to see the shape of his name on them. "I've been turned into a fucking chick -- no dick, no balls. _Again_." 

"Good thing we kept the clothes from last time," Dean says. He grins, licks his lips and presses close to Sam, inhales the scent of her neck and then bites her earlobe -- not hard, but enough to sting. He can feel it when her nipples harden, both of their t-shirts old even before _they_ got them, and he puts his hands under that beautiful peach of an ass, pulls her close and tight to press them together. 

Sam tilts her head back, eyes closed, and Dean sucks a mark into her neck, right where he's left hundreds of hickies over the years. Granted, most of those hundreds have been Sam's adam's apple under his teeth but this has been happening more and more, lately. 

"I don't know why it keeps happening," Dean says, ignores Sam's noise of disbelief, "but you have to admit, Sam, it's a whole heap of fun." 

She laughs, gets her hands under Dean's shirt, draws her nails down his back deep enough to have him hissing. "Take me back to the room before we have sex right here," she tells him. "Unless you wanna ask someone else to join in." 

Dean turns enough to look over his shoulder, catches the bartender watching them, lips parted, flushed to high heaven and back. Dean chuckles, looks back at Sam and says, "You're all the woman I can handle, sweetheart. 'Sides, I don't wanna share this gorgeous body with anyone else. You're all mine," Dean says, and then he pauses, feels his throat go tight as he asks, "Ain't that right." 

"So right," Sam replies, "that it's a wonder you waste breath to ask when you could be getting me to the car." 

"Ooo," Dean says. "Wanna have sex in the back seat?" 

Sam shoves Dean away, jumps down from the pool table and runs her fingers through her hair. "Last time we did that, I came all over the door and you bitched at me for hours. So no, I do not want to have sex in the car." 

Dean pouts, gives her the look she always caves for, male or female, and says, "Won't have that problem with you like this, y'know. Doors are safe." 

"I," Sam says, low, sultry, tone matching exactly the gleam in those cat's eyes she's got outlined in kohl, "want you to spread me out on a _bed_ , Dean, and eat me out until I can't talk any more, and then I want you to get your fucking dick in me and fill me up." 

"Sure," Dean says, like that thought of that isn't making him lightheaded with need. "You get multiple orgasms, I get to come once. You really _do_ embrace this woman thing, huh." 

Sam raises an eyebrow, hooks two fingers in his belt buckle and yanks, catching Dean off-balance enough to start leading him to the door. "I think it's a fair fucking trade," she tells him, and there's a split-second where Dean thinks -- oh, _damn_ it -- but then she's waving at the bartender and opening the door, and the breeze sends a chill through her, enough for Dean to feel it. 

He takes her fingers out of his belt, twines his hand in with hers and starts leading _her_ to the Impala. "Y'knew it was gonna be cold but you went for the shorts instead of the jeans, huh? Good to see your lack of common sense isn't related to your dick." 

"Know how much you like to see my legs," Sam says. "Besides, it was warmer earlier." She stops there, looks at him as he opens the passenger side door for her -- habit, when she's like this -- and stands as if she's waiting for a response. When Dean doesn't say anything, just has an increasing amount of trouble trying to tamp down his amusement, Sam huffs. 

She slides in and Dean shuts the door before he goes to the driver's side, gets in and turns the car on, blasts the heat. Sam lets out a breath, leans back and closes her eyes, one hand stroking down her thigh as if to remind herself that she's female right now. 

Dean grins, says, "Oh, sweetheart, don't worry. I'll get you nice and warm again." 

Sam groans, reaches over and smacks Dean without even looking. Dean grabs her hand, laces his fingers in with hers, and they stay like that as Dean drives out of the parking lot.

One of these days, he's going to run out of the elixir that turns Sam from male to female -- but there's no sense worrying about tomorrow when he has six feet of Sam to get in bed right now.


End file.
